


Ghosts

by lunacosas



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Coping, Grief/Mourning, Hurt No Comfort, Loneliness, Loss, Moving On, Post-The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:49:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28408782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunacosas/pseuds/lunacosas
Summary: Eskel returns to Kaer Morhen. After all, the place is his now.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 27
Collections: The Witcher Flash Fic Challenge: Secret Santa (TWFFSS20)





	Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BrighteyedJill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/gifts).



> Thank you to Octinary for organising this, and for helping with ideas!
> 
> [](https://ibb.co/Dwx3hr0%22%3E)  
> 
> 
> @ BrighteyedJill I really hope you enjoy this!

The keep is his to tend to now.

He doesn’t want it.

Even with the summer sun on it, Kaer Morhen feels colder than it’s ever done, ghosts dancing in the midday sun. Eskel never thought he’d return, had even vowed not to, but there is a thread linking him to this place, drawing him back to the mausoleum.

The emptiness as he enters its walls is oppressive, suffocating. He pushes on, listening with each heavily echoing step for sounds that aren’t there, catching the scent of deadened air, of dust and neglect, things left to rot. The scent of life has faded, sunk into the fabrics that were once touched by people who are no longer here, and all it takes is for Eskel to carelessly brush against a cushion for the traces to be released. His senses are assaulted by a vivid memory, colour and sound choking him, the shape of a mentor loved and lost holding form for a moment.

The impact lessens, but doesn’t let go. The memory doesn’t so much fade as become replaced by another memory, and then another, and another. Eskel drifts through the great hall, remembering things he’d forgotten, dancing amongst ghosts that tug and tear at his bruised, aching heart until he can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t think.

He finds himself curled up in a corner, Vesemir’s hat crushed in his hand. Heavily, he smooths the fabric out, his chest shuddering and heaving. His face is stained with tears, salt against his dry lips as he licks them. He needs to drink. To eat. He is the living amongst the dead, and can’t join them. He came here for a purpose.

The stores are foul. What the rodents haven’t eaten has turned to mold, disintegrating into putrid mess. Only three jars of honey and two stone grain bins full of oats and rye have survived, along with all the alcohol. Eskel turns away from it, and then turns back again.

The days he loses were not kind. He knows that much when he wakes up, sick and alone, his body protesting the abuse. The herbs and fruits he finds growing lower in the valley help soothe his discomfort well enough for him to hunt a worthwhile meal. He guts and butchers the doe where she fell, cradled in the valley’s warm embrace as he works on the methodical, soothing task. Kaer Morhen hangs, cold and forlorn, in the mountains above him, a sorrowful presence even at this distance. He doesn’t turn his back on the keep, but nor does he take care to keep it in his eyeline.

Upon his return, the first thing he tends to is the store room. He’s aware all the while of ghosts at his back, fingers touching his, laughter echoing in the cool, hollow room. He sees his brothers out of the corner of his eye, catches glimpses of Vesemir weighing out provisions for the animals, remembers the flash of colour that was Geralt’s hair before, and exhales slowly, focusing back on his task.

It’s long, hard work. Nothing about it is particularly demanding, physically, but after a time Eskel retreats to the freedom of the courtyard, where the memories of centuries of tragedy still linger, but a gust of wind might send them astray. There is no roof hemming him in, and Eskel can meditate on his training, shifting endlessly through practiced steps and moves, steel sweeping through the air. He works his body until his muscles sing, and works his mind until the signs have wrung every last drop of concentration from him. His meal that evening is plain but filling, the warm summer breeze cool against his skin. He lies in the grass, staring up at the sky, at the stars that flicker and blink into existence in the fleeting night, and he counts each one.

Come morning, he trains again until he’s sated in that regard. The work to be done in the keep is menial, and he sighs as the ghosts welcome him back into the shadows, their cold fingers closing fruitlessly around him. In the library he gathers the books that are out of place, examining their frontispieces and setting aside those he senses he will need. The rest are replaced on their shelves, filling dark, empty spaces that plead for their return. The hearth is cleaned out and fresh firewood stacked, and then Eskel is done there, moving onto the next task.

There is one he avoids, that even the brightest of days with the fiercest of suns can’t make any easier. He turns from it, instead deciding to take stock of what is missing and begin acquiring what he needs. The list is long, but it gives him purpose. There are few things of value to be found that he can bear to touch or part with, but what he finds he bundles up and takes with him.

As summer turns to fall, there is a faint, fragile heartbeat taking hold within Kaer Morhen. There is wine brewing, potions steeping, meat drying and vegetables curing for the winter ahead. The stable houses a horse and two sheep, who roam the pastures as they please during the day and mock Eskel’s attempts to shepherd them at dusk. Old piles of blankets and clothes have been taken from their chests and mended, bedding made ready and set aside in case any winter visitors would prefer them to the old pile of sleepthings Eskel still cannot bear to touch. The library is the room that bears the most signs of inhabitance, the tall shelves better suited to keeping out draughts and dampening the sounds of emptiness. No matter where he is in the keep, Eskel is alone with the whispers of those who have left. He prefers to be where he can touch those whispers, and see them written on pages. Sometimes he reads out loud, murmuring the words to himself and whatever spirits linger close enough to hear, but as the days draw in there are fewer and fewer ghosts around him. They’re still there, he knows, but the older ones – the ones from before he took his first step on the Path – have settled back into the stones.

Come harvest, the store is adequately provisioned. Eskel leaves to trade for some of what he couldn’t acquire, and clears the valley of beasts upon his return. Both sheep are still alive and, he hopes, fat enough for the coming winter.

As the first frost grips the ground, Eskel begins to look outwards, calculating how long it might be until he has company. As the cold deepens, the mornings filled with clouds of breath as he works through his training, his focus is never far from the valley, watching for movement in the growing white. The first blizzard batters the old ramparts, whining and screaming through the battlements, and Eskel shores up the damage as best he can. He lights the fire in the main hall, tidying the table he never sits at to eat, lightly dusting the cushions he never rests on. It feels, in those few moments, as if everyone is home, as if everything is okay again – not right, but okay.

Things will be okay again soon, he tells himself, ringing out the rag he’s using to scrub the floor. His brothers will come home, and although there’s been unspeakable loss, there will be comfort in their company.

They will come.

He tells himself that through the next storm, and the next, the snow piling higher and higher, the nights growing longer and longer. The blizzard cuts at his skin as he stands, peering down into the valley, trying to catch the sound of movement beneath the howling of the wind. Behind him the horse fusses in the stable, the sheep bleat in protest of the weather and down below in the valley…

Nothing.

No one.

When the raging torrent of ice is done, the only movement is a wolf slinking after prey, the boughs of the trees groaning beneath the weight of snow and ice.

Eskel knows now that they aren’t coming.

He retreats to the main hall, to the messy pile of discarded blankets and bedding he couldn’t bring himself to touch before. He lets the scent of his brothers surround and embrace him, crueller than any ghost because there is no touch to be found there, no company to be had, only fading memories that he stains with tears.

The days bleed together. The only thing which rouses Eskel from his unhappy nest is the need to see to the animals. Day and night become a confused tangle, mornings as black as night, evenings dark enough to stumble in. He prepared for three Witchers. There are provisions enough for one, and yet, come midwinter, barely an ounce of his own portion has been touched.

The tangle of blankets lose their scent, becoming rancid with his own. Eskel loses his brothers all over again, loses the whisper of Vesemir’s spirit from the touch-worn hat. He dresses himself in whatever clothes he can find, scavenging for remnants, holding them close until they too slip from his fingers. The ghosts are silent. There is no one to hear his sobs nor answer his pleading cries. He is forgotten, alone, a fading breath of life trapped within a tomb.

One of the sheep dies, perhaps from neglect, but more likely through chance. Eskel tells himself it was neglect anyway. He sees in the lifeless thing what he is doing, his useless attempts to try to cling onto something that has already gone. He uses what he can of the animal, and throws the rest to the scavengers further down the valley, not wanting to invite them near. On returning, he looks in the store room with purpose, culling what has already been wasted and mentally portioning out what is still to be used. There is plenty. He need not go hungry, so determines not to.

In the great hall, he folds away the used, ruined bedding, and then decides to wash it. It serves no purpose as it is, and, once it’s cleaned, he remakes the heaviest blanket into a horse blanket. The wool he collected is cleaned and set aside for spinning, the tear in his shirt he mends by firelight with careful, patient stitches. He shaves, shortening and combing his unkempt hair, washing it free of neglect. He kneels in meditation, the crackling of the fire keeping him company and the singing of his blade as he hones it soothing him into a semi-restful sleep. The ghosts drift around him, more passive now. He dreams of Vesemir, of Geralt and Lambert, of Leo, of Aiden and Coën, Yennefer and Triss. He dreams of all the people who have warmed themselves by the fire at Kaer Morhen, often waking with tears on his face and a lump in his throat. Sometimes, he feels Vesemir’s touch on his shoulder as he rouses, its ethereal weight somehow approving.

He trains hard. He pushes himself, works his body, honing it as finely as the sharpest silver blade. He reenacts fights, talking through them for any spirits who wish to hear, telling them what happened and muttering to himself as he figures out a way to do better, to end the fight more quickly, or kill the opponent before they can harm anyone else.

The first fall of sleet, rather than snow, is bittersweet. He both longs and fears to leave Kaer Morhen. He thought he would be beyond eager to go, but finds that the thought of walking away for the last time is difficult to bear. This place is his home. It’s what made him who he is, the sanctuary he’s always known, the table he’s always shared with his brothers. To accept that the keep’s time is at an end, that there is no going back, no more life or laughter to be found within its walls, compounds the loss he already bears, manufacturing a dull spearpoint that presses in at his throat.

Day by day, winter loosens its grip. The days lengthen, white giving way to vivid green, flowers opening to tempt the first calls of spring to the valley.

Eskel, on the verge of it all, hesitates. He lingers. He looks outward, away from the keep, knowing what he must do, and what it is he has to accept. They’re not coming back. No one is, not now. Somewhere out there he has to begin the search for a new home, even though he knows he will never find one.

At last, he says goodbye.

He slaughters the sheep for her meat, packing what he can carry onto his horse. In the great hall he lets the fire burn down and die, the soot still hot as he turns on his heel and walks away. It’s raining as he takes the reins, walking the mare forward beyond the walls of Kaer Morhen. Fat, heavy droplets of warm rain fall on his upturned face as he turns to look up one last time at the walls that, for better or for worse, have always embraced him. As custodian of the place, his decision, though it weighs heavy on his heart, is to let the past be, to let the dead rest, and find whatever peace they can.

The valley sprawls out beneath him, luscious green and teeming with life, murmuring beneath the heavy rainfall. He’s waited long enough. Another three months and it will be a year since he returned here, a year since he came back carrying the fragile hope that his brothers would return too. That hope is gone now, but he knows they’re out there somewhere, walking their own Path. His own will never cross theirs if he stays.

He takes a step forward, and doesn’t look back.


End file.
